the same blanket

the air is grainy,
like an old-time
phonograph, scratching away;
a slight tint of blue
pushes through my
seeing of sidewalk and storefronts.

I am in dream time,
riding my lady’s bike
down the sidewalk at noon.

I did a deed today, a good deed;
I volunteered for a couple of hours.
And, riding home,
I realized I am something more than evolved primate,
something less than Mother Theresa;
yet I am under the same God’s blanket,
hiding from the sorrows of selfishness